


Prey

by laissemoidanser



Series: Hunting notes [2]
Category: True Detective
Genre: AU, M/M, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 12:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3447782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laissemoidanser/pseuds/laissemoidanser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marty looks at him, unable to discern - is this that man, he saw behind a translucent curtain for the first time? Because now it’s hard to tell where, under this fragile broken form of Rustin Cohle a Crash could be possibly hiding. Is it the man smiling at them despite it all? And Marty is trying to get even deeper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prey

**Author's Note:**

> Translation into Chinese by [hieroglyphics](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hieroglyphics/pseuds/hieroglyphics) is now available [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11879346?view_adult=true)

Days he had a chance to spend with _detective Rustin Cohle_ in the capacity of his partner are so very few, Marty can remember each one of them clear as day, but all those memories always end up with the most important one  - bathed in bright sunlight reflected on the tiled walls ...

 

**Beginning**

 

Martin Hart and Rustin Cohle are both at Quesada’s office. Both like two guilty schoolboys  -  looking in all the  possible directions, anywhere but each other, and by all means, not straight at Quesada, who looks as if he was just clipped in the face with something heavy, and now it is vaguely reminiscent of a brick, at least by the color shade.

Marty takes keen interest in what’s under Chief’s leather couch all of a sudden, and he actually thinks by now he is not averse to crawl under there himself. Rust is examining the walls, and well, at least he has a good reason to do so – it’s his first day at the station. His right hand is covered with bandage, tattooed bird’s beak sticking from under it, as though someone caught it and tied it up.

Marty’s brows are drawn together tightly as he recalls how this morning started _. He enters the locker room and spots his dancer and he be damned – all dressed up in the fucking suit and a tie! Marty freezes in front of his locker, forgetting to actually reach the lock, his fingers grabbing the air absently an inch from it._

_“What is it? You work here now?” He asks, pointing at Cohle._

_Rust looks at himself in the mirror skeptically._

_“Got a call today. Quesada asked to come”, he pouts at his creasy jacket, admitting its state of impropriety, takes it off and sticks it back in the locker adjacent to Marty._

_“Yeah. With your broad choice of activities, must be real hard to get back into that detective suit, huh?”_

_“Miss me?” Rust asks in a low voice, since the room is full of people._

_“Like hell I do”._

Quesada’s voice snaps him back from sweet memory land. ‘The fuck am I supposed to do with you two now?’ he lifts his hands in dismay. “Hart, what the fuck?” Marty feels seriously pressed into a chair with this fixed glare. ‘How did you even find him?’

“Sir, you told me yourself to scan all the strip clubs in the district. Could’ve warned me that I'm not the only one working there”.

“For once, Hart, you decided to do the work assigned to you honestly, and see what came of it. I get a call from drug enforcement, they say we stick our noses in their business, disrupt their fucking order. Do you think I am all that pleased and happy to listen to this shit? I asked you to observe and assess. Not to bring your ass into the heart of fucking action. What you’re an undercover cop now, all of a sudden?”

“No, sir”.

“That’s right”, Quesada sighs, relenting. “Cohle, you are now with Hart on this case. I’ve got no idea how you gonna get it closed - you have exactly three weeks, until then, you are his partner and I don’t need, you hear me, don’t need no fucking problems with your pals from drugs enforcement. You work in our midst, you report to us only. That clear?”

“Clear, sir”, Rust responds.

“Now get out”, Quesada waves them off like some kind of plague.

 

  **Preacher**

Marty watches Rust interrogate their first suspect. Half the station gathered at the door, eagerly discussing the newcomer detective, and the caustic envious vibes of sarcasm and ridicule can already be caught from their whispers.

_"Where did Quesada find him? Why is he acting so strange? That’s how they all are in drug enforcement, believe me. They say this one used to work undercover as well. Nut case."_

Fortunately, Marty doesn’t hear any of this behind thick walls. He watches Rust and wonders how many more talents are hidden in this man? Or more precisely, how can a man resemble both a temper and a preacher? Here he is like a church minister at the confession, except for the cross in his hands – he leans over a sinner, then passes him around and sits down in front of him, careful not to lose visual and physical contact, tells him how important it is to cleanse the soul of evil and how it is important to be honest, first of all, to oneself. Marty eyes the handcuffs gleaming on his belt and bites at the corner of his mouth, suddenly wanting to try them on Rust, but at the same time, he can almost see how his new partner gets under the suspect’s skin, cracks his skull open and skims the map of subconscious mind, accessing the weakest points. The suspect is trembling all over, he endures Rust at first, frowns at him and tries to deny everything, throwing angry glances at his audience, but in the end, his defense begins to crumble, until he is crying on his "preacher’s" shoulder, ready to tell everything he knows.

Marty never seen anything like this. Most guys from the station know how to crack the criminals, but Rust, he turned out to be a natural born manipulator.

Marty smiles when he comes out of the interrogation room, not trying to hide the fact that he is overwhelmed with pride.

“He's good, guys”, he says to the gusts of cigarette smoke, with detectives Favre and Geraci and the rest of them hidden somewhere behind it....

“What you talkin’ about? Asshole from Drugs will only stifle this place”, Geraci says, coughing and waving the poisonous smoke away.

_“Where do you sleep at night?” Marty asks. Evening. The setting sun fills the locker room with warm light (but not quite as bright as on that day, when all the tiles appeared golden) and now they're here all alone, so Marty’s voice sounds different. Rust is by the locker next to him, stripped down to his wifebeater and Marty doesn’t even realize that while his hands are working on his tie, his eyes keep wondering up to his partner._

_“At home, Marty, where else?”_

_“And what, you ain’t scared of stayin’ there all alone?”_

_Rust chuckles, a sunbeam slips between his back and a white shirt, when he throws it over his shoulders and Marty can’t help it  -  he holds his hand out, as if trying to catch this beam, gets a grasp of that wifebeater and  lifts it up, slides his warm palm under it , tracing the graceful curve, feeling the sharp backbones under his fingers._

_“You wanna… invite me to a nice cup of tea or somethin’?” Rust breathes out._

_Fifteen minutes they were supposed to spend on changing, they put to another use, by Marty’s locker, glued to each other. Marty forgot the last time he kissed someone so hard, and every time he looks at Rust’s lips, red and swollen from his onslaught, he wants to kiss him harder._

_“And maybe I shall feed you something”, he says lowering his voice. “So fucking thin”._

To think that the same lips calmly poured poison into the ears of a broken man who later drained his whole life story down on the paper. Marty knew what was coming next.

 

**Secret**

Quesada is flinging his arms around in his office, trying to drive a lesson to some poor fellow-officer, his words can’t be heard but Marty is more than confident that they are a continuous spring of handpicked low quality swearing. He sighs and casts his tired eyes down to his unfinished report. Somewhere behind, Geraci and the company are whispering away, reluctant to get to their fucking work, as usual. Marty throws them a look , when once again they burst out laughing. He always got along with his colleagues, but lately, they seem to have turned their backs on him, are less inclined to invite him for a beer after work. On the other hand, he wouldn’t want to go anyway, because he has nothing to tell. More precisely, recently, there is nothing in his life he could share with _them_. Since Rust started working at the station, their attitude has become much more aggressive. But Marty prefers to believe that the reason is envy. Rust is extremely smart and talented detective, besides; him and Marty got the entire case to themselves, leaving the rest of the guys with nothing. That must be infuriating. So once again Marty convinces himself, and looks at Rust. Now and then Rust glances behind his shoulder at the subject of concern. He reacts painfully to every stupid remark. His strange habit - to carry a ledger everywhere he goes, won him a remarkable nickname in the very first days - "Taxman", and now not a day goes by without fucking caustic remark reaching his ears. Today he seems to be losing his temper more than usual, he turns away from Geraci again, making an effort, and keeps writing something. Marty again loses interest in his report. Only when Rust finally looks up at him, does he realize that he’s been staring at him for a good five minutes.

“What?” Rust asks.

“Nothing”, Marty answers, thumbing his lips, smiling; he gets back to his work.

Rust reaches for cigarettes and a lighter, gets up from the table and heads for the door. “Need fucking fresh air”, he remarks before leaving. When he passes Geraci and company, they whistle at his back. Marty frowns, scratching his chin. What's wrong with them?

He struggles still over his report, yawns, adds in a couple of lame sentences, then throws the pen away, takes his jacket and leaves the station after Rust. That poor fellow-officer stumbles out of Quesada’s office - red and mad as hornet. Quesada is already sitting back at his desk, eyeballing the station like an owl. Geraci and the rest of the guys calm down and get back to their desks.

 Rust stands on the porch in front of the parking lot, finishing a cigarette up. The wind ruffles the unruly curl of his hair gently, and the sun draws his angular silhouette against a white wall with shadow.

“You alright?” Marty asks him.

Rust slightly turns towards him and nods, dragging on the cigarette. He exhales a cloud of smoke; the wind picks it up at once and takes it away somewhere in the direction of the parking lot. Marty snatches the rest of the cigarette from his fingers and drags on it himself.

“A bit stuffy is all”, Rust adds, breathing the air in noisily.

“Hey, listen”, Marty comes closer, his shoulder crashes into Rust’s. “Don’t let those bastards get to you. They always act this way with strangers. It will get better, you’ll see. For now, rest assured, I ain’t  gonna let them hurt you”.

Rust nods and smiles for a moment. He leers at Marty, squinting in the bright sun.

“Okay”, he answers shortly.

“Okay?” Marty repeats, patting him on the back.

Rust nods again.

Their faces are very close, warm breath brushing the skin before their lips find each other in a subtle kiss, but Marty fingers grip too tightly on Rust’s shoulder, he pulls him closer, refusing to increase the space between them even for an inch.

“You need to finish this report, before we can move on”, Rust says.

 “You already got a plan, hmm?”

“Marty. What's happening to you today?” Rust asks softly. And Marty’s hardly going to deny this observation. The last few days are like the whole world is lying at his feet, like he can get a star from the sky, if only he reaches out for it.

“You’re happening to me”, he says. “Driving me crazy. Can’t think about anything else, but how we get back home tonight and how I'll fuck you, I’m gonna fuck you all night until it’s morning and you can’t  stand straight ....”.

Rust smirks, runs his tongue over his lips. It’s difficult to confuse him, so Marty decides to be frank here.

He returns to his workplace, secret smile on his lips, which he tries unsuccessfully to suppress. Quesada is talking on the phone now, and by the time he hangs up, Marty enters his office with a finished report.

“You’ve got one more week on this, Hart. Now even the fucking FBI took interest in our progress, they gonna  get their fucking hands on it one way or another. So you move your lazy asses”.

“Got it, sir”.

“You and Cohle, you’ve got a plan?”

“We’re working on it”.

“Working on it, is that so? Well, hope you’re not bullshiting me here. Otherwise, all your work will go to places you don’t wanna hear about. Get back to the case”.

   

**Confession**

 

Marty and Rust at the office, in the kitchen. Marty silently pours himself a cup of black coffee, a question rolling on his tongue that he doesn’t dare to ask. He knows that Rust hasn’t told him the whole truth, but as time passes, the more he learns about Rust, the less he wants to know about his undercover days. Rust is standing next to him, leaning gracefully on the kitchen counter and it seems like he’s waiting for Marty to show him some interest, to give voice to his concerns. Marty sits down to a table, adjusts his tie, makes a sip of hot drink, but never looks up.

“What do you know about Emily Kёrf?” The question he had asked Crash before, but recent events have yet again made him hope that, maybe, Rust would tell a little more about her. The mysterious Emily, who was burned alive, her fingerprints didn’t get a match, her name did not appear in any database or registration system, her body hasn’t been identified. The police called her ‘Emily Kёrf’, just because it was written in a diary found by her body among the rest of her clothes. And the only two words written there that didn’t get burnt were –

_Emily_

_K_ _ё_ _rf_

Rust pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, takes one out and lights it. Then he gently takes it between his thumb and his forefinger, and he’s looking out the window for a while at the day overcast with gray.

 “I've worked with her for a while”, he begins, reluctantly, as if each word is stuck inside his mouth, as if every sentence he has to pull out of his throat with his fingers. “Those people who own the network of clubs, they would get together, about one, two times every six months. Somewhere far away from the city. They would-uh - choose girls from the strip clubs and ... arrange a shortlisting of sorts. No one could possibly refuse if chosen. And for those who were, there was no chance. Emily had no fucking chance”.

“What’d they do with the ones they choose?”

“I don’t know, Marty. I happened to be at such a meeting once. And, speaking frankly, I didn’t quite understand what was going on at the time. Was fucking high and drunk. All those clubs are owned by one man, but no one’s ever seen him. It’s his means of money laundering. His real specialty - drug and people trafficking. When drug enforcement sent me there, my task was to find out how they move drugs. But then there was a problem - the situation got worse and I had to - to change the scope of my activities so to say”, Rust takes a deep breath. The forgotten cigarette, which he holds between his fingers, has burnt down almost to the filter. It seems like a heavy weigh that was pulling at him all those years has been partially taken off his shoulders and he breathes with relief. All those terrible things known to him only and no one in the world to share it with. Marty looks at him, unable to discern - is this that man, he saw behind a translucent curtain for the first time? Because now it’s hard to tell where, under this fragile broken form of Rustin Cohle a Crash could be possibly hiding. Is it the man smiling at them despite it all? And Marty is trying to get even deeper.

“Why did you have to change this…this scope  ...?”

Rust drags his eyes from the window to him, then, almost frightened, he looks in the direction of the office. He takes his burnt cigarette carefully and throws it in the trash can.

“Marty”, he sits down on the chair next to Marty, leans toward him. “That scum, we can’t stop”.

“What d’you mean?”

“All of our work here, all we're trying to do. Three weeks - you and I, we can make it happen, yeah, but once we get to the truth, and believe me, it is not all that difficult, we‘ll be taken off the case. That’s the best case scenario”.

“Rust, you telling all this shit to me, I don’t get. What - what do you want to say …that we should leave the case be?”

“I just want to say, that I was in deep shit back then. And if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t get out. Not alive - no. ‘Cause one day I just stopped being a cop, one motherfucking day, I just - became one of ‘em. ‘Cause – I didn’t get no choice”.

He looks at Marty with his tired glassy eyes, dark despair flashes behind them, a premonition that the last thread of hope breaks off here, with Marty, who‘s gonna ask him to fucking go away and tell the entire station about what exactly he found during his small detour. Something that no longer deserves to bear the title of "cop". Something that has long lost the title of "personality", but instead split into many imitations of itself, and among them, somewhere deep inside, perhaps there is still a whole, and it desperately craves to be found.

“That's why you shouldn’t live in this fucking house of yours all alone”, Marty flares, hiding behind a cup of coffee.

“Marty ...”

“I don’t know and probably don’t wanna know what kind of life you had those past years, okay? But the guys at the bar, believe me, getting acquainted with them was enough to understand one thing - just leave it all without even trying – fuck no, impossible. You drag me into this business, and there’s no turning back, no. End of story”.

Rust smiles at him faintly.

“It's not my fucking fault you brought your ass to the club”.

“It's not my fucking fault you itch to make a living stripping your ass in spare time”.

When Steve Geraci enters the kitchen for his cup of coffee, Marty and Rust are glaring at each other in perfect silence.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asks sarcastically.

Marty clears his throat, takes his coffee and leaves without uttering a word.

 

**Invitation**

 

Marty’s waiting for Rust by the door to the forensics’ department with a stack of papers in his hand and a set of keys, he convinced Cathleen to entrust him, for a "secret mission".  “Fucking crazy”, he thinks to himself, visibly nervous, and keeps glancing at his watch. Soon Rust joins him, takes the keys and opens the door of the forensics’ room.  “Hope you didn’t drop any papers on the way?” he asks.

“Well, fuck you”, Marty whispers, feeling sweat running down his back under his shirt. They don’t go further inside the room, but stay in a closet cluttered with boxes and mops. Marty happily stashes the _"extremely important secret documents"_ into the nearest empty box, and after the door is locked properly from the inside, he presses Rust against the wall, crashes his lips into his, opens his mouth up and eagerly pushes his tongue inside. In the darkness some of those fucking boxes fall down to the floor with a loud noise, and one can only hope they contained nothing fragile and valuable. Marty turns Rust around, so that his cheek is pressed against the wall, he holds him there and quickly unzips his belt, pulls his pants to his knees, strokes his back under his shirt, his thighs, his ass. “I like your ass”, he thinks aloud, clinging to Rust, grinding against him, while undoing his own zipper. He feels so good and so high that his head is spinning with all the adrenaline and desire, blood pounding hard in his temples and his chest. He kisses Rust’s neck, takes his hard dick in his hand and gently squeezes, sliding his fingers along the entire length. Rust moans and bends in response, to meet him. Marty slaps him gently, spreads him and prods one finger inside, it slides in so easily, so smoothly, and Marty smiles at something known only to him and Rust.

“Just look how nicely you’re taking it”, he whispers in Rust’s ear, adding the second finger in. Rust bites his lip and rests his forehead against the wall. He breathes heavily and instinctively pushes back on Marty’s fingers, his body begging for more. Marty gets a third finger in, and he bites his own hand to keep his voice down. “Rust, one more?” Marty asks, sliding his free hand down Rust’s abdomen towards his aching dick. Rust nods, shuts his eyes closed when Marty adds a fourth finger. “Good, baby, so good” he hushes, gently kissing Rust’s neck, his cheekbones, inhaling his scent, feeling weak in the knees. Rust’s knees are trembling. Marty starts to gently move his fingers inside, Rust bends towards him even more, looks back over his shoulder. His breathing halts, Marty feels he’s dangerously close and he removes his hand to enter Rust himself, fucks him fast and hard, his eyes veiled with hot white pleasure, he feels Rust coming underneath him, wants to make a joking remark how he always gets to last longer, when suddenly he tips over the edge himself, hot jolts of heat passes through his spine and he didn’t expect it, not yet, so powerful, Marty’s legs give way, he falls forward, leaning on his hand against the wall. Wild, overwhelming feeling. Marty blinks several times to recover, his body keeps bending convulsively over Rust, as he comes, again and again. He’d never experienced anything like this, at some point, Marty, even panics, but it all slows down eventually, responding with dull emptiness in the whole body. He gasps in surprise, his voice unnaturally high, then he freezes and listens to Rust’s rapid breathing under him. When he gets out of him gently, white sticky traces run down Rust’s thighs. At this point, their eyes got used to the darkness, and Marty spots a pile of disposable towels in one of the fallen boxes, he reaches for one and carefully wipes Rust off with it, before his pants get spoiled.

“Leave it, Marty”, Rust takes it from his hand.

“You alright?” Marty asks, still at a loss.

“Yes”, Rust leans in, kisses him, his eyes glinting in the dark. He nods toward the door. “Go till they start looking for us. I'll come by later”.

Marty returns to his desk, out of reality a bit, his eyes are heavy with sleep, and he feels like he has just run a marathon, but his heart is warm. Fixing to make a cup of coffee, he ends up pouring himself a cup of tea and drinks it without noticing. Rust is back ten minutes later, looking a little confused, his hair tousled more than usual, and he somewhat awkwardly sits down at his desk. Marty believes those minor changes are not particularly remarkable to anyone else but them. Rust keeps working as if nothing has happened. He’s learned by now how to carve time out of his obsession with the investigation for Marty, and that’s deserves some fucking appraisal, but Marty also wants to learn how to reserve some time for work in his obsession with Rust. Quesada sticks out of his office.

“Hart, my office”, Marty sighs, gets up and walks away. When he comes back Maggie is waiting by his desk, she waves at him when she sees him. “Motherfuck”, Marty thinks, angry after Quesada’s shitstorm, caused by his lame excuse of a report, _(“You can wipe your ass with it, Hart”)_ which now he has to write all over again. And now lookie here, as if this wasn’t enough!

“Hello, Maggs!” he smiles stiffly, hugs her and kisses her on the cheek. Rust watches them with pure curiosity, a pencil in his lips. “Didn’t expect to see you. What are you ... what are you doing here?”

“Haven’t seen you for a long time, Marty. I thought; why not invite you to have dinner with us tonight. Girls miss you, I think it would be great for all of us to get together again like this”, Maggie is reasonable and right, as always. Marty’s somewhat at a loss. He hasn’t seen her for several years, haven’t heard from her for a few months and to be honest, he wasn’t all that enthusiastic to see her again. But he did miss the girls more than anything else and the opportunity to see them should not be missed.

“This is Rustin Cohle, Maggs”, Marty says, trying to smooth out his confusion. “My uh ... my new partner”.

_(And I’ve just fucked him in some dark closet.)_

“Rust, this is my ex-wife, Maggie”.

“Nice to meet you, ma'am”, Rust half-rises from the table, shaking her hand. Maggie smiles kindly, looks at him appraisingly. “Marty told me a lot about you”.

“Is that so? I hope only the good part”, she laughs. “Rust, why won’t _you_ come as well? Like in old times - we always used to invite Marty’s new partners by the house. His life is in your hands, so why not learn more about you, right?”

“He's not that big fan of family dinners ...”

“With pleasure”, Rust interrupts him mid-sentence.

When she leaves, Marty raises his hands in a gesture of incredulous question.

“Really?” he cries out.

“What? You don’t wanna introduce me to your family? Figured it's about time”.

“Yeah, so very funny, Rust. Hi girls, hello Maggie, this is my new sweetheart here - Rustin Cohle. (I have to tell you, Maggie, never had such crazy sex with you, ever. But you have something to strive for.)”

Rust looks amused and casts his eyes down to his ledger, small smile shaping on his lips as he’s sketching a portrait of Marty’s ex-wife on a blank page.

“You flatter me. Sweetheart”.

Later this evening they drive to Maggie’s. Marty thought he’s forgotten the way to the good old house, but now the memory gets back to him like he never changed his way of life in the first place. For years so long and endless he used to drive here to work every morning and back from work late in the evening, so much doubt and remorse he suffered on those miles, passing by all those perfectly mowed lawns and carefully painted fences.

Forgotten memories come to life in his mind, and it’s like he looks at himself from another dimension, eagerly trying to gauge whether he was happy, and realizes that he can’t. Because he wasn’t. Good Lord, was he ever? By the house, he helps Rust to straighten his tie ( _“Hate ‘em fucking ties”, Rust comments helplessly)_ , takes a bottle of wine and they head for the door. Marty feels at a loss, out of place, Rust’s lagging behind him.

Maggie opens almost at once, the girls, Audrey and Macie, jump out from behind her back and run into Marty's arms. He is touched and happy to see them. Maggie laughs, takes a bottle of wine from his hand, so that he could hug them much as he wants. “Daddy, Daddy!” they greet him. And Marty almost misses simple domestic bliss.

“So glad to see you!” he admits with all his heart. They go inside.

“And who is this?” Macie asks.

“This is Daddy's new partner, Rustin”.

Rust feigns a smile on his face and briefly nods. He is extremely quiet, tense.

“Hello, Rustin”, Macie says.

“Rustin, are you are a policeman too?”Audrey asks.

“Like your dad”, Rustin responds.

When they go into the kitchen there is another girl waiting at the table – Maggie’s friend, and Marty’s heart sinks. Of course, Maggie made sure that his partner wouldn’t stay lonely. They sit down to table, Maggie opens a bottle of wine, they’re joking and laughing, but Marty keeps his eye on Katie – that’s how the friend is called. She is pleasantly surprised with Rust, no doubt about that, it’s impossible to stay indifferent to him.

“Daddy, Rustin is very beautiful”, Audrey whispers in his ear and Marty almost chokes on his pasta.

He tells funny stories about his work to the girls, tells Maggie about his current life, excluding Rust from it. Such life turns out to be quite dull, but is just fine for a family dinner. Past few glasses of wine, Katie leans closer to Rust and Marty starts to fume while Rust gives no fucking sign of distress, keeps talking to her as if it’s all absolutely fine, sure as can be. Maggie looks at her once or twice and smiles, thinking that her plan is working. After dinner, Marty helps Maggie with the dishes in the kitchen. And to the steady _clink_ and _clank_ of plates they initiate an unambiguous conversation from which Marty realizes that Maggie would not mind to – _clink-_ get back together with him again. She walks up to him, trying to kiss him, he backs off till he bumps into the dishwasher and puts his hands up.

“Maggie, I…I ...”

“What?” the shadow of awareness downs on her pretty face. “You seeing someone?”

“Yes”, Marty confirms.

“Who is she?” Maggie’s smile faded away.

Marty looks around into the living room, where there are Rust and Katie sitting at the table, looks around for the hundredth time.

“I don’t…I wouldn’t like to talk about h-… about it just yet”, he says.

“Fine”, she shrugs her shoulders.

A thousand miles stretch between them again, even though they’re standing close to each other. Marty suddenly grasps the true purpose of this invitation and assumes deep down that he is about to lose the sight of his girls for some more years.

 

They get back home late at night, because after Maggie’s, on Marty’s pressing request, they pay a visit to a bar and got drunk so that now Marty feels all the alcohol playing delightful play inside his head, too loud maybe for his preferences. Rust is no better. Together, they walk a curve line from the car to the porch, where Marty takes up a long search of the keys to the front door. The pockets refuse to open up, and the brain refuses to come up with any ideas of where else aside from the jacket he could’ve put them. Rust is standing pressed into his shoulder – had no problem retrieving his fucking cigarettes from wherever he keeps them, and now smokes this one fucker matter-of-factly; his eyes are out of focus, wandering across the lawn, as if watching night shadows dancing in a magic circle.

Marty is angry he can’t find the fucking keys and he’s angry with Rust for not turning  Katie down, but instead acting like the last fucking gentleman on planet Earth. They even exchanged phone numbers! Cicadas are going crazy with Louisiana heat in the bushes all around them, their crackling resounds with thousands of voices in Marty’s ears. He wants to do Rust a good long lecturing on the subject of how to stop bearing responsibility for his every goddamn move, but his tongue is hardly capable of producing one intelligible sentence. Besides, he finally finds the keys in a back pocket of his pants.

“’ere it is. Sons of bitches”.

Rust grumbles  something in response, must be something deeply philosophical and beyond all reason-like, Marty does not want to know, but  it is so damn nice to feel the warm vibes of a body beside him. They collapse into the house and Rust laughs, yes, he fucking genuinely laughs, when Marty misses a chair by bit and sits down to the floor, in a vain attempt to take off his shoe. That motherfucker. Rust takes off his jacket and heads into their bedroom, or rather, into his own, Rust’s bedroom, which contains a table and a mattress on the floor. Rust himself decided that from the two of them he was in a more appropriate state and offered to take the wheel, but on the way he realized that he was, perhaps, too quick to draw conclusions, since he’s clearly forgotten the way to Marty’s house. But Rust is hard to confuse, so he brought Marty to his home instead. Where did Marty get the keys? It’s quite simple, when he was hunting for them in his jacket; Rust remembered all of a sudden where they were _(must be his house!),_ so he pulled his own keys out of his jacket and put them into Marty’s back pocket.  Next morning he may pay for that small act of crime, but, frankly speaking, now he doesn’t give a slightest shit about anything. He’s in a playful mood, hell, for all he knows, maybe his second personality would wake up, if he wasn’t so hopelessly drunk.

After another five minutes of Marty’s valiant attempts to get to "his fucking” bedroom, they crash down on the mattress. Marty is preoccupied with one question only, and has to make sure that no Katies remain in Rust’s thoughts. Rust seems to him like some mythical voluptuous creature in a jacket and he might say it out loud, because the bastard chuckles again, covering his pretty mouth with his hand.

“For Christ’s sake, Marty. Never heard such silly bullshit”.

“But you like this bullshit”, Marty drawls out. “You always told me getting drunk makes you sad. And what ... look at you”.

“I don’t know”, Rust’s still spotting a crooked smile. “Guess I’m just happy to be with you”.

 He is obscenely provocative, alcohol deprived him of his usual restraint, when Marty shifts over him, he obediently spreads his legs, he’s still in his jacket, but wearing no pants. Marty tries to remember when exactly he managed to take them off while unbuttoning Rust’s shirt, and the "mythical creature Rustin Cole" spreads her legs wider with a sweet moan that brings Marty closer to the state of blunt arousal. “Hey, buddy” he jokingly tries to reason with him. “Quit acting like a slut, will ya? Neighbors gonna think, I got myself one for a night”. Rust only looks at him guilty and giggles in response. Marty pulls his jacket off, and then his shirt, tries to get the undershirt off as well, but gives this mission up halfway. Aside from being aroused he’s dead tired, and there’s only one thing that keeps him from dropping asleep right on Rust’s heated body. He leans over him, sucks a kiss on his neck and Rust clings to him, trying to catch his lips, starving for affection. He puts his arms around Marty’s shoulders and gently nudges him down till he gets the hint and heads south, tracing wet kisses along his chest, stomach and abdomen, he then gets to kissing his knees and his legs lightly, sucking gently on his inner thighs, teasing every curve of his body before getting between his legs and taking him in his mouth. By this time Rust is so hard Marty figures it won’t take long. Marty also figures that he’s never done it before, but who gives a damn, he sure wants to try. Rust freezes under him, sighs loudly, like an animal, that got straight into the hands of a hunter, and when he again recalls the need to breathe, his breath’s coming out short and heavy. Marty gets very hot, he’s never known Rust this way and the way he makes him feel blinds him with want, until strange twisted ideas come to his head, each of them he wants to try here and now, but he remembers to concentrate solely on making him feel good. He takes him all in his mouth, recalls how many times Rust did the same for him, and tries to apply all the tricks that worked oh so well. Rust moves his hands from his shoulders, almost shyly, to his hair, cups his face. Yet those lustful little engines keep working in Marty’s head particularly hard that long day, so he puts his hand on Rust’s chest, leans over him and smiles at him slyly. Rust’s looking back at him through his lashes and blinks slowly, not knowing what Marty wants from him and why he stopped.

“You better hold on to this blanket, baby”, he says and leans between his legs again, past his dick, farther. This little trick was so popular with women, why not try it here. Marty bends Rust’s legs slightly forward to get a more intimate access. He kisses him, just a subtle touch of lips, and Rust’s body shivers with realization. “Easy, easy”, Marty whispers and kisses him again, determent this time, gently pushes tip of his tongue inside this hot tightness. Rust groans, throwing his head back and biting his lip, his legs shaking treacherously, Marty plays with him for a while, hoping to get more... “More”, Rust begs him and hopelessly tips over the edge, coming hotly from Marty’s ministrations. Marty kisses him one more time, before getting up to admire the pretty result. Rust’s under him in the most shameless messy state. “Rust, hey, Rust”, Marty calls him quietly, but he’s already fast asleep – what an uncommon sight to see. His stomach is smeared with traces of white, his cheeks are flushed and cheekbones glitter with sweat, his hair, once neatly done, is disheveled and cover his forehead in unruly wavy locks. His black eyelashes flutter in his sleep, his lips parted slightly. Hell, this is more than enough. Marty lies down next to him, leans closely against him, kisses his shoulder and gently ruts against his side. “Fuck, Rust”, few more times, and sharp chains of pleasure pierce his body, pouring heat out where their flushed bodies touch. Now Rust looks like a fucking work of art. “Marty”, he whispers in his sleep. Marty covers them both with a blanket, and falls asleep almost at once, calmly and peacefully.

At night he wakes up from the absence of familiar heat by his side. He opens his eyes, eyelids heavy and reluctant, making him think that maybe he’s still in a dream. He sees Rust in the darkness by the window; moonlight drawn by the window shapes his silhouette in gentle angular curves. He’s hunching over a little, looking out the window, cigarette light sparks with red between his fingers. And Marty feels he’s home, he’s here, he’s present. Like a good dream, Marty’s moved by a feeling he can’t define, because he’s never experienced it. He’s sorry for everyone who’s not familiar with it, everyone who’s lived a life without knowing it.

“Rust”, he calls, reaching out to him.

Rust half turns to him; pale light outlines his naked body.

“You awake?” he asks, his voice low and husky with sleep.

“Come ‘ere”, Marty mutters drowsily, he wants to fall back into sweet slumber, only to make sure that Rust’s by his side at first.

Rust takes a tin can from the floor, throws cigarette butt in there and shuffles to their ‘bed’. His body can be seen clearly now in the dark, with all his tattoos and scars. He gets on the mattress next to Marty, climbs under the blanket, facing him. And Marty is ready to tell him thousands of the most important words which are swirling in his head, but realizes that he would fail to express at least a thousandth of their significance. Marty goes to sleep.

 

**Farewell**

 

“Hey, Cohle, come here, need to ask you something”, Rust slowly walks up to Favre, tilts his head and listens to what he says to him. His expression doesn’t change, except for the bad smile distorting his features. For a second, he looks at Favre, and before one can get a hint of what’s happening, he hits him in the face with his fist, knocking down with one deft swing. The entire station jump to their feet in a second, gathering in a crowd around the scene. Nobody is trying to set them apart, Rust as if seeing red, methodically, blow by blow, beats Favre into a cold floor.

“Why won’t you get one back at him, you idiot!” someone in the crowd eggs on.

“What's going on here? What's going on here?” only now Marty manages to get through all the people. He sees Favre's bruised face and Rust, taking a swing for another violent blow. Marty gets a fistful of Rust’s shoulder and pulls him back with all his force, away from the stunned enemy. He’s never seen Rust in such rage. His eyes flash fires, he’s mad with fury.

“You moron! C’mon, call me that again, fucker!” he growls, trying to break free.

“Fucking psycho done to the world”, Geraci says. “Told you right from the start his place’s not here”.

Five minutes later, Marty and Rust are in the locker room. Rust got himself a suspension from the case, back in Quesada’s office he was politely asked to fuck off, back to his drug force junkies. Warm sunlight is streaming through the windows, lights up the room so bright that the tiles on the wall are shimmering with gold. Silence is broken only by the sound of water running from the faucet. Rust’s still breathing heavily, still reliving in his head everything that happened, filled with violent hurt. Anger still boils inside him, an endless coil that’s been growing over the years and he can never take it all out. He holds his bruised fist under cold water, while Marty’s next to him, silently watching him, remembering the first day he brought him over. So much has changed in those three weeks ....Will it really end now?

“Show me your hand”, he asks.

Rust silently holds his palm out and turns away, as if waiting for Marty to get angry with him for the rash act.

“Goddamn”, Marty examines bruised knuckles and suddenly says, “That asshole deserved it”.

Rust looks at him in surprise. Marty has been waiting for this one. His eyes seem even bluer with light from the window reflected in them. He brings Rust’s bruised hand up to his lips and kisses it gently, like the most precious thing in the world. It’s the first day after Rust took the bandage off, and the bird spreads its wings again on his forearm, though now they are clipped with a crooked scar. Water is still running, the sun is pouring golden light, and Marty is plucking up his courage, watching gold scatter with sparks in Rust’s eyes. “I think I can’t let you go, Rust. ... Can’t stand it all without you by my side”.

Rust straightens up, not taking his hand away from Marty. His lips stretch in a faint smile, he shots a laugh of disbelief, tilts his head slightly to the side, and then suddenly his eyes are glistening and teary.

“Fuck”, he breathes out, his lower lip is trembling, betraying his composure, he bites it painfully.

They meet over the sink, their noses and lips touching and while Marty kisses him, he hears the air whistling in Rust’s lungs, all those tears he tries to restrain are fighting out and hurting his chest. It’s been so long since someone told him such sweet words, his whole soul shudders with their impact. Marty pulls away from him and then Rust covers his face with his free hand, his shoulders trembling. Marty still holding his hand, he is very close, leaning to Rust, as though wanting to become one single entity with him. Rust squeezes his hand tight in his own. At last, he finds courage to look at Marty again. His eyes are red and his face is still wet with traces of tears. Marty slides his hand over his cheek and wipes them away with his thumb. Then he brushes a stray curl of hair from his face, smiles gently and says,

“Such beautiful son of a bitch, when you cry”.

His reward is a genuine smile and a salty kiss.

 

**Lacking**

A few days later, Cathleen takes away the sign "Detective Rustin Cohle" from the desk in front of the Quesada’s office. She takes all the needless papers from the sliding shelf, goes round the desk and performs the same routine with Marty’s side. No one’s seen the two of them since Rust was suspended. No one in the station would see them again. Marty didn’t let him go and Cohle took him along, further in his dark world where he’s seeking answers to the question lost deep inside his soul. Who killed Emily Kёrf? Who’s the hunter?


End file.
